A Vicki Beckham type who snapped straight back into her size 6 M.i.h jeans immediately after passing the placenta (which smelt of roses)

Fibbing

The potential special post-partum gifts that I am aware of, there may be more!

Stretch marked boobs

Stretch marked tummy

Nips like one of those stretchy men you get in a party bag

Scar from C-sec

Lady garden scars from the various methods of extracting the bub

One exit only

The bladder tone of a mouse (they pee all the time leaving a trail)

A pelvic floor swinging like a hammock

Various other slightly embarrassing or uncomfortable reminders

Perma baby doughnut (that weight round the middle that just will not bloody shift)

I was asked by the lovely Yvonne of KemiKids http://kemikids.com/2016/01/08/my-life-helen-morris/ what I thought of my post-baby body. Wowzers. My answer: Five years later and I’ve nearly accepted it. I view it as Pompeii – once glorious, now devastated by forces beyond my control; but still lovely in its own way and admired (by one).

At 41 weeks pregnant with my first, I was silently but viciously attacked by a saber-tooth tiger. I survived but my body still bears the scars. STRETCH-MARKS. I was oblivious. My bump was so enormous that I couldn’t see the bit between b-button and muff. I was living in ignorant bliss until the consultant, while prodding my gigantic bump, said “did that used to be a tattoo of a strawberry?” Used to? What? I got cable boy (him-indoors) to hold a mirror to the lost area when I got back. Sh1t, Lord Voldemort found me. He cursed me with angry reddy/purple lightning strikes across my gunt and right through my ‘special mark’.

With my 2nd I actually looked down around 38 weeks and watched and felt a ‘K’ being torn through what was left of my b-button. I thought it was a sign of some sort. She seems ok, but by stomach is a Jackson Pollock master-piece.

Now they have faded to silvery flesh-ladders, like silk worms sliding down to what was once my husband’s favourite venue. Robbie Williams on watching his wife give birth said it’s “like watching his favourite pub burn down”. Wow, it really must be tough for you. Sorry.

I have struggled, I have sobbed, I have moped and still torture myself by looking back at pics of me in a stripper bikini in the Great Barrier Reef c.2001. Now, I have invested in a couple of designer swim-suits and count my blessings. It could have been worse.

I’ll leave you with ‘The stressed out mum rap’, an oldie but spot-on. Never got that crotch-chop out of my head “once we talked about our lives, now the conversation switches; we compare caesarean scars, episiotomy stitches”. Watch Mum Rap here

It’s that time for us failing human beings to make some shonky new year’s resolutions. I’m generally not a big fan of setting outlandishly un-achievable goals, so I’m thinking…how about we all just try to be a little bit nicer?

I have been mulling (in my wine) what I’d like to pass on, enable, inspire in my kids and jump-start in myself and my husband. For me it all boils down to 4 qualities….

A list: Kindness, emotional intelligence, manners and warmth/humour.

B list: Love of animals, nature and art.

Snagging points: Don’t pick it and eat it, don’t open champagne bottles with cork pointing to face, don’t be a stuntman/woman.

Following on from my article 20 thoughts on being earth-shatteringly awesome (see here), I keep coming back to point no. 10. BE KIND, for goodness’ sake be kind.

This Christmas along with thousands of others we loaded up our credit cards, piled up the gifts under our non-drop Christmas trees and utterly indulged on 25th December. Now that the needles are falling (non-drop my @rse) and I am running out of legit excuses to drink mulled wine and eat chocolate, I’m getting a touch pensive.

A few years ago, it was just my father and I on Christmas day. The image of us sitting alone in our paper hats with our 2 party-poppers was too pathetic. So I decided to volunteer our time (he was not entirely sold). We helped out at a local centre for adults with disabilities. It was challenging physically – wheeling multiple adults from their rooms to a hall and emotionally. We did have a good giggle when we were dressed as part of a nativity (tea-towels on heads) and had to lead the carol singing to an electric key-board. It was a day full of surprises. But back at my dad’s reclining in garden chairs, in his otherwise unfurnished front room, we felt good.

I’m throwing out some ideas on kindness and giving. This is not intended to be preachy or patronising, but I guarantee they will make you feel better than doing a Davina DVD or chugging a wheatgrass and kale smoothie.

If you want to teach your children about giving and thinking of others:

Always stand aside and hold a door open for those who need it (or for anyone) and teach your kids to do the same (when they’re old enough not to slam it in someone’s face)

Let your children put the 20p (or 1,2, 5p) in the charity boxes when you see them and explain what the money will be used for

Grab a world map and google images of children from around the world to start shaping their sense of perspective

Talk about what happened in their favourite film or TV show – did someone hurt another person’s feelings? Did someone do something really kind?

Saying please and thank you. I know it sounds lame, but this is where it allllllll begins.

Get them to donate to a charity shop (let them choose one of their old – but good quality toys). You could reward them by letting them choose something small to buy, if you’re not drowning in tat. Explain who benefits.

Don’t aim to scare them or ram in into their tiny busy little minds, but just slowly and surely.

Give to a charitable cause:

Set up regular donations to your favourite charities e.g. cancer, developing countries, children or animals. It can be as little as £2 (don’t forget to Gift Aid)

GAYE – If your company has it set up you can give as you earn (tax break)

Staff fundraising – if you have a cause you’d like to support, speak to your manager about initiating company fundraising. Some companies will match what you donate. It could be a sponsored bike ride, sitting in a tin of beans in a bath, shaving your hair off or just a cake sale

School fundraising – speak to your school parent association if there’s a cause you’d like to support and any ideas fundraising activities you have in mind.

Go to the doctor – don’t be embarrassed, or feel like you’re bothering them about yourself or your child. Trust your instinct. Even if it’s your toosh and you know they’re going to stick a digit in it.

Do some proper naughty stuff in your teens/early twenties. Not wildly illegal but the sort of thing you’ll laugh about when you tell your future husband/confess to your family years later. Then do it again in your thirties and forties. I can give you some ideas?

Don’t show off. Be proud of talents or achievements (actual stuff), but don’t blather on about your 5* holiday, new wheels, excess ‘spare time’ etc. Bore off. Be humble or share the love.

If you’re arriving late at a wedding, do not wear spindly heels and get them caught in the church grate at the bottom of the aisle. Especially if you’re wearing a bright yellow dress.

Try not to be late to everything always. If you figure this one out, let me know the secret.

Brush your hand through the bushes and crush lavender from people’s front gardens (not an innuendo). It smells frickin amazing and all the better for having been a smidge cheeky.

DO sit on a chair that says ‘don’t sit on’, run on the grass it tells you to ‘keep off’ and most importantly you MUST roll down hills at all great National Trust houses.

Experiment with your hair, go on. One day it’ll lose its lustre. You can look back and laugh and your children will mock but admire your daring.

Hear your inner voice and make considered decisions about whether to go with it or not. <I have just smacked myself for writing that.> I first ‘heard’ mine properly when I was about 25 years old and it was telling me that the dreamy actor boyfriend (who believed in angels) I was shacked up with was definitely not ‘the one’. It took me a while to get there, but it was right. Where was the bloody voice when I was peeing behind bins and wearing hotpants in 1995?

Be kind. For goodness’ sake, of all things be kind. Pick a kind partner, show your children how to be kind. Be kind to insects, shopkeepers and older folk.

Be observant. Look up. Have you noticed tree tops look like the inside of your lungs and wondered if they look the same underneath the ground? Watch not just the person talking, but the people’s faces around them.

Do it. Try it. Sing in the car, sing in the shower. But sing, do not hum. Please. Mmmmm.

Keep the friends that make you laugh until you’re either going to fall over or pee yourself. It’s exercise. For real.

Challenge your perceptions. I’ve been guilty of judging ‘a book by its cover’ (someone is a book-worm or a bit Footballer’s Wives). Bad dog. Judgemental, small minded, bad doggy. Fill your ‘contacts’ with all different folk and call them (or text) for a walk/drink/chat/playdate/ new exhibition. You can ‘date’ friends.

Joke about all the things that made you laugh as a kid: wee, poo, bums, willies, foo-foos. It never grows old and neither should we.

If you tend to fall down stairs sober, do not stand near them after a sherbet, especially when there’s ‘oil’ on those stairs (bambi legs, high heels, camera recording).

Don’t read lists. Unless you’re taking a short break from being earth-shatteringly awesome and needed a moment filler.

My new Best Mum Friend has given me 3 months’ notice. She is stepping out of the part-time working mum chaos into the bat shit crazy world of the SAHM. Call me paranoid but I’ve reached the illogical conclusion she will no longer seek solace in my manic company. You can read more here

To prepare myself for this eventuality I’ve organised a little questionnaire (sort of like online dating) in my quest to replace my perfectly imperfect mum friend.

QuestionnaireWhen asked how you are do you say:

A) Fine thanks, how are you?

B) “Urgh knackered, one too many proseccos and had a row with him indoors”. Everyone loves a bit of over-sharing don’t they?

Usual chat on a night out:

A) Discuss latest behavioural issues (he shouted no when I offered a Peppa Pig yoghurt) and ill health of dahlings

B) Share deeply inappropriate stories about yourself and family that make you look ridiculous. We do love a good laugh at how crap we are, especially when friends join in.

Sign of a great night out

A) Managed to pay less than everyone else, not drinking – training for next triathlon.

B) Giant hangover and vague memories of chatting about manscaping (apparently this is a thing?)and the persistent neglect of lady gardens and marital duties. Barf.

How’s your time-keeping on the school run/baby massage/Monkey Music?

A) I leave at exactly the same time and allow an additional 10 minutes to find a convenient parking spot, I hate a rush.

B) As erratic as British tennis. Sometimes a miracle occurs and I am BG* (I never cease to be shocked by this occurrence). Usual ETA is 2 minutes before the bell. A few stressful AG*moments.

On arrival at kids parties/school gates/baby classes do you tend to be:

A) I’m no Annabel Karmel, but lay on a home-made pizza making activity for the kids (wholemeal pitta) and a slice of my lemon drizzle cake for parents.

B) McVitie for the mum and waffles, beans and sausages for the kids with Mini-Milk chasers.

What do you chat about on a mum/play date?

A) Ask how Tillie’s cough is and whether Dylan is sleeping better now?

B) Throw a liberal few swears around while pouring our tea (if you throw the F and C you’re a friend for life. I love to be shocked) accompanied by mild criticism of husband washed down with a lot of self-flagellation.

What do you do in your spare time?

A) I like to get out for an early morning jog, it starts my day right. In the evenings I will either work on my tapestry or the paintings I’m doing for the kids.B) Piss off, are you joking? I’ve had no concept of time that is ‘spare’ for over 4 years. Does pilates followed by a glass of wine count?

How would you describe your general appearance/presentation?

A) Groomed, I can’t leave the house without make up. Sometimes I cheat and wear my gym kit on the school run.B) I look hygienic if a little shambolic. On days ending in a Y I confess to a slight hangover first thing, but last night’s eyeliner will see me through.

What would other people say about your kids?

A) Very sweet and well behaved.

B) Kids frequently seen running off, throwing a wobbly or being pacified with a packet of Pom Bears. One word? Feral.

What’s your favourite crafting activity with the kids?

A) Hard to pick a favourite, probably making collages from magazine cuttings or creating coloured-glass windows.

B) Oh FFS are you trying to make me feel even worse? When nagged enough I’ll drag out the cracked fluffy Play-doh and shout at them for making a ‘snow-storm’ on my floor with it.

Hardest part of motherhood?

A) There are tough moments, but I just feel so blessed.

B) It begins between 5.30 – 6.30am and ends around 7.30-8.30am if we’re lucky.
* Before Gates Vs After Gates

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How did you do?

Mostly As – You are a gift to motherhood. You are idealised and revered by all those in group B (mostly). You are a jogging, crafting, healthy-cooking, happy-living dynamo. Make sure you give yourself a break and there’s nothing wrong with telling the truth sometimes – we all have shitty days. Us B’s need you to balance us out and give us something to aim for. Stay classy.

Mostly Bs – So glad I’m not out there all alone. Mwah, I love you all.

Elusive Cs – It is possible to be a mix of both. This is probably the Holy Grail. You should blog about it!

————————————————————————————————————————————-

FootnoteThe mums that make even me feel a smidge good about myself …
– Let their children pee by a tree/wall right in front of the school. They are not dogs, not always.
– Park right up on the curb so you can’t get past with your buggy (tempted to scratch it but is had been me once in an emergency = extremus tardyusness).
– Play DVDs in the car and Frozen on the iPhone 90% of time (I only do the latter about 20% on a good day -smug- unless we are on a 13 hour drive to Ireland = divorce grounds).
– Let their kids shout at them. I may be slummy but I ain’t sufferin’ no fools. No baby gonna put me in my place.
– Frequently end up in A&E. This is not kind. But it only makes me feel a fraction better about the NHS resources used up on a phantom swallowed coin (the queens head did show up blackened in the pan 5 days later. Treason not intended, sorry Your Maj).

Y’all don’t need to fill in the quiz, I already love you for being renegade screw-ups.

I’ve just come back from visiting a mum friend of mine who has decided to quit working. Forever.

I had two initial reactions (in my head): No you won’t. How could you do this to me?

This is a relatively new friendship, but a very important one to me. Finding good mummy friends is like internet dating, you have a subconscious list of criteria you are mentally ticking them off against.

Kids ages and gender

Approach to parenting (earth mother/erratic and shouty)

Behaviour of kids (can they play in the same house long enough to allow us a proper chat, or do they destroy/ignore each other)

It’s a very fine balance… how much do I need to be seen to tell my children off for not sharing or jumping on their child? Is it ok to say “they’ve been real d1cks this week, sometimes I just want to press pause and run away”. Will they wince at my potato waffles, chips and beans or just be bloody grateful someone else is feeding their kids and having to do the tidying up?

So this friend ticks all boxes. Our kids are the same age, same gender, feisty and I deem that we are both ‘normal’ (honest, imperfect and a bit sweary). But another big part of it is that we are both the part-time working mums who are running round late everywhere, forgetting kids’ parties and not replying to texts. We apparently also look the same (bushy mushroom hair). But as the high-waisted one would say, she also has ‘the X factor’.

So with all the boxes ticked I freely confide in my bushy-haired friend “I’m a b1tch wife”, “is it ok to ditch swimming for a lie-in and leave the kids in front of the TV for 3 hours?” yes she says. I actually love her. I know she feels my pain. We are both stretching ourselves thin and failing in certain areas. We have a weekly round-up after GymTots and rate ourselves against the following criteria and how badly we are screwing up in each: Mum, wife, daughter, sister, friend, employee/employer/colleague

Here are my ratings this week. This is not what HR like to call a 360; these are self-judged.

We’ll laugh at each other’s confessions and make drastic pacts: let’s drop ballet. Let’s let the men look after the kids. We’re going to get a dog. I’m going to quit.

Silence.

No. You can’t. Then we won’t be equals. We won’t be equal screw-ups. You will find time for someone to tame your mushroom hair, leaving me frizzing out in the cold (see what I did there?). You will have other playdates and replace me. You’ll go to the gym and we won’t be able to moan about how lazy we are. You will have time to go the shops and after a little nap will have the energy to make your kids and husband a delicious and nutritionally balanced meal. Then you’ll play ‘the shopping game’ (Orchard Toys. Legends) and tell me you don’t really need the TV anymore and are all talking to each other. You won’t be able to meet up with me because you’ll be having your nails done in time for lunch with the girls (the other beautiful ladies who don’t work).

I’ll be imperfect alone. And dumped.

It takes time and grooming to nurture these rare mummy friendships. I’ve learnt that my very favourite mum friends tend to have:

Messy front gardens (both senses probably)

Back gardens cluttered with mould-covered plastic crap (only in the 1 sense)

Strange substances crusted into their carpets that they haven’t had the time or inclination to chisel off (dropping the innuendos now)

Sometimes lose it and shout at their kids in front of guests

Only make one of the 3 allowed kids teas: pizza, sausages, beans on toast

The ability to turn a blind eye to the trail of destruction caused by my kids

Kids that leave a greater trail of destruction than mine.

Come on, it feels great when someone else’s kids behave badly on a play-date, it allows me a minute to silently worship my kids (secretly smug).

So, if my friend follows through with her rash decision, I will be holding auditions for new friends very soon. In the pub, or just outside the school gates, after they have shut in my late face.

Meera Syal, discussed the loss of a sense of self when you have a child. I vividly remember that dislocated feeling of being purposeless in the first weeks of maternity leave before the bear arrived. I kept saying to cable boy (husband) “I can’t wipe that bloody surface one more time”. I just felt a bit pointless. I soon got the hang of it, buying trash mags, eating junk food and developing a brief addiction to ANTM (America’s Next Top Model). Despite my dedication I never have learnt to ‘smise’ (smile with your eyes). Lovely as this deep-fried wallowing was I had already strayed far from the woman I was a few weeks before and that sense of stepping-down from society was a lonely feeling for me. Obviously when your baby arrives you instantly have one hell of a purpose – keep this damn baby alive at all costs, mostly to yourself (sleep, boobs, dignity, sanity). Weeks went by and I was still shocked by the brutality of the birth (ruthlessly yanked out’ the sun-roof), the destruction of my body and the lack of decent conversation.

waiting for the bear to arrive

Meera shared a saying “when a child is born, two people are born; a child and a mother”.

I was grieving (whinging) for my old-self (selfish, spontaneous, pert) and having difficulty ‘birthing’ the new person, the mum. It’s hard to find them when you are lost in a fug of conflicting and fragmented advice from friends, family and healthcare professionals. Everyone is just trying to help you get through, but you are really on your own with all the instincts and decisions. But, you know what, YOU DID IT!

“No one asks a man how he’s going to juggle it all” said Meera Syal at Mumsnet Blogfest15. As soon as I got home from a whole 12 hours of freedom and inspiration I thanked my husband for looking after OUR kids. “Hang on I shouldn’t really thank you for doing what I do all the time. But thanks anyway”. #feminismfail

Mumsnet Blogfest15 thought of the day x3

To the men who came and were occasionally overlooked and slightly stereotype-bashed in the forums, big up yoself.

To the mums that brought their tiny babies along, I salute you. You are courageous and competent. Your fuzzly little snufflers made me feel a tinge broody (not good).

To those I got chatting to or shared a drink with, thank you for expanding my mind and friendship circle.

I am sticking a reminder in my diary to buy the early bird tickets to Mumsnet Blogfest16.

When I decided to start writing, it was the first piece I wrote. It just flowed out onto the keyboard, but I didn’t think it would be a great note to start my blog off on, unless I was after sponsorship from Kleenex. It means a lot to me to be able to write about the death of my dear father and the hilarious (and sometimes painful) reactions of the bear. This is the last picture I took of him and such a lovely memory, that’s mine to keep and share with the bear.

Papa and the bear at the races

I’ve realised children can be the best tonic for grief. Yes, it’s hard to keep them alive in the early days of grief – I struggled to remember to feed the bear and bed time was either hurried or hugely late. But you muddle on through and it’s their smiles, silly questions and their need of you ultimately that yanks and thrusts you, with sticky fingers, back on track.

Because I like a complicated life I trialled a new ballet class for gumdrops today. She did all the hardwork, I merely do the admin and co-ordinate her diary. She’s a busy 2 year old.

She already does Gym Tots on Friday, Baby Ballet on Saturday and swimming on Sundays. Yes, you spotted it, that means NO LIE-INS for me. But am I enhancing my child’s life or draining it?

I have taken that view that, unlike my son, gumdrops seems to thrive in a teacher/classroom environment. I’ve been heard to say “She’ll do well at school, the teachers will love her”. But I think I may be simply delighting in not having a toddler-class-refuser, like the bear. For many a class I would pay my fee, get the CD and t-shirt and sit sweating as he up-ended the cash box, dutifully inspected all fire-extinguishers and banged all radiators before clambering back into his buggy mid-class saying “I go home now”.

So, I am currently agonising about which classes to drop, but it’s not straight forward. I can never make a clear decision when it comes to dropping a class she loves. I still get pangs of guilt when I hear her sing tunes from Monkey Music, which we had to drop when I went back to work. I realise this all sounds bonkers and I will ridicule my naïve self when she’s 9 years old and I never get out of my ‘mum taxi’.

But I have realised two things:

It gives us something to do and stops the boredom whinge. There are only so many times you can roll and chop fuzzy Playdoh.

She genuinely seems to love it all and that makes me smile. In fact ballet is so unbearably cute it has become my fix.

For me baby ballet is like the scene from Snow White http://bit.ly/1X5HwJb – it’s an intoxicating cloud of fluffy rabbits, chirping birds and lavender scented love hearts popping in the twinkly sky <sigh>. I almost get the same degree of smile ache as my wedding day.

So I’m dropping a fair few £££ and Zzz’s each month, it’s making us both happy and no amount of crusty Playdoh squidging can match the high.

I grew up in a family of 4. I was then and am now slightly in-awe of all 3 of them and consider myself a fortunate follower. I’m really quite comfortable to put myself in the role of underdog and knock them up a wicked-wow pedestal to dance around on (we love a good dance). You see, I want to keep them there. Forever.

There’s not much I do without considering what one of them would think and hoping they’d approve or will be proud and knowing (or thinking I do) that they’d frown-on something. I’ve unwittingly made them my moral compass. I have of course also painted myself into the role of a black sheep (panto-style). I must quickly add that this very trait drove and drives them bonkers. These, my IT support (just switch it off and f*cking on), my pit-stop crew, are THE ones who tell me how proud they are and how wonderful some of my doings are. In this vein I have unwittingly collected two more vital crew members, my BFF (met her as a co-goofy buck-toothed Kylie and Jason lover aged 6) and my cable boy (husband and fit friend of 10 years). They are my mattress to fall back on. Lumpy and slightly barbed in parts, those are the bits that force you to get the hell up and get the f on with it.

My mother told me about radiators and drains. Radiators are shamazing to be around and you can’t get enough. The ‘let’s just have one more glass’ because you don’t want the evening and the conversation to be over. The ones who make you feel you could and should apply for that job and that you must be a good person (beyond that bag of decent clobber you gave to Age UK) and a ruddy good laugh if they want to hang with you.

These 5 are my bustling, banging, super-efficient wall of radiators. They are my nest and I am warm-blooded.

Some of my biggest hopes for gumdrops and the bear are:

Be a radiator

Surround yourself with radiators

Try out a drain just to know the feeling and move away quickly

Oh the other list starts with:

Try smoking but don’t do it for a living, it feels cool but buggers your lungs up

Don’t join ’em if you can’t beat ’em, start a new ‘them’

Don’t ride a motorbike. Ever. Have you seen those gnats get squished on our windscreen?